


Grasp the beauty of the power of ice

by Agape (kitsuneart)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Drunkenness, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-09 18:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11674767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsuneart/pseuds/Agape
Summary: In the faint light and the silence of the hotel room, Otabek finally allows his mind to wander, unleashing the memory of those intense green eyes that managed to instill in him the strength to keep fighting, day after day, with the absolute certainty that, sooner or later, he would have met that soldier’s eyes again, and he would have faced that look as an equal, in the next season….





	1. when you're drunk

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Grasp the beauty of the power of ice / ITA](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9845684) by [Agape (kitsuneart)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsuneart/pseuds/Agape). 



> Million thanks to [danlickedphil](http://archiveofourown.org/users/danlickedphil/profile) for her invaluable help as beta!! <3 this wouldn't have been possible without your support!

29th March 2015  
World Figure Skating Championships  
Hilton Hotel  
Shanghai, China 

“Another toast for our national hero!! бәрекелді!” (may your words come true!) 

The clinking of the glasses reverberates inside the small privé on the hotel’s ground floor. Dim lights suggest an intimate atmosphere in sharp contrast to the blaring sound of Kazakh folk music and the cheerful laughs filling the room.

Otabek gulps down the vodka in one sip, as custom, feeling his throat on fire and his cheeks warming up. He’s not a heavy drinker. Of course, he enjoys some of beers or cocktails once in awhile, but he’s always aware of his limits and he usually stops when he’s feeling tipsy. As an athlete, getting drunk is something against his own judgment. But for tonight, and only for tonight Anton, his coach, wouldn’t budge. “You’re writing the history of Kazakhstan’s figure skating! We need to celebrate this event properly!”

And it’s really an event to look upon the flushed and smiling faces of Anton and Taras, his doctor and physiotherapist, who’s blasting the music up full volume and singing loudly with the rest of the team who share the same passport as their new national hero. He’s trying to make Otabek sing with them, grinning like a fool. “Either you sing or you drink Beka, your choice!” cackles Taras. The skater gulps down another drink, not-so-silently cursing in Kazakh while his team burst into laughs again and he smiles shaking his head.

A few floors above them the banquet is still taking place. Otabek had attended just long enough to be polite since he got Bronze. He remained on the sidelines with a glass of champagne in his hand, watching the party with his usual stern look and piercing eyes, leaving the burden of the small talks to his coach. Not that it mattered anyway. Everyone’s attentions were on the unattainable Russian legend, Victor Nikiforov, who walked gracefully past the crowd as if he was still dancing on the ice. Even if his lips curved into an amenable smile, Otabek noticed that Victor’s eyes weren’t smiling. He sipped his champagne and watched the world champion’s movements. He saw Christophe Giacometti approaching him, clinking his glass against the one of his eternal rivals, smiling maliciously while whispering something in his ear. Otabek looked away, suddenly self-conscious that he was staring at them, and nodded at the person chatting with Anton that reclaimed his attention.  
When he looked up again, he noticed Jean-Jacques Leroy entering the room, moving like he owned the place, with his girlfriend at his side. Otabek furrowed his brows and finished his champagne in one draught. “Anton, can we leave yet or not?”

The new Kazakhstan’s hero had hoped to retire to his room after the banquet formalities. He didn’t expect his team to throw a small party in his honour. He smiled awkwardly, pleasantly surprised by their affection. Whispering his gratitude, he follows Anton into the small room where presently empty bottles cover almost all the table.  
Taras keep pushing his iPad under Otabek’s nose, showing him the latest Kazakhstan magazine’s press release and all the major newspapers’ headlines: All praise him as a hero, filling Otabek’s heart with pride and unconditional love for his country. He smiles, looking quite flushed while his vision blurs and the room starts to spin.

Leaving the party and reaching his room turned out to be harder than competing in the world championship. Anton offered his help but, judging from his blank stare and his goofy grin, his proposal was a long shot and the skater dismissed it politely but firmly, raising his hand in front of him. 

No, Otabek Altin still has his dignity. 

He scrapes together all the willpower he has left and tries to walk straight, aiming for the lift. The hall is quiet, save for some random people wandering around. It’s quite late and Otabek wonders if the banquet is ended already. Not that he cares that much. He lay his head against the cold mirror glass of the elevator, closing his eyes and silently praying to not fall asleep while he feels the lift pushing upwards…

“DOORS OPENING. LIFT GOING DOWN.” 

Otabek blinks, baffled by the metallic voice and he rushes out of the elevator’s doors. He then walks slowly, staying close to the wall, until he reaches room 2387. He fiddles a bit with the magnetic card, silently cursing at the number of drinks he allowed himself to have until finally he manages to enter, breathing out a sigh of relief and leaning at the door with his back.

The dim lights of Shanghai’s night filters in the room from the wall-to-ceiling window. Otabek tries to focus on them, but his sight is blurred again. Kazakh folk music is still playing on loop in his brain, reverberating in his ears. He runs a hand over on his nape, feeling the roughness of the freshly shaven undercut and contemplates the idea of taking a hot shower before going to bed but fuck, he’s not sure he can reach the bathroom when the room is spinning in front of him. He dismisses the thought, snorting and shaking his head while he sits on the bed instead.

His medal is resting on the bedside cabinet over his passport and it faintly reflects the light coming from outside. Otabek slowly brushes his fingers over the embossed letters, as if he is reading braille. He sighs, his lips curling in a soft smile and falls backward into the mattress with his eyes closed, the aseptic scent of the freshly washed duvet filling his nose. 

He made it. He made his country proud, his family proud. His phone was bursting all day with texts and calls of congratulations from his parents, his sibling, his aunts, uncles and cousins until the fifth grade, not to mention his childhood friends and basically anyone who knew his mobile number. He was overwhelmed by all these outbursts of affection and so was his phone. Its battery died and he left it to charge on his bedside cabinet before leaving for the banquet.

He takes a deep breath. The road to becoming the third best skater in the world has been tough and full of difficult challenges. His willpower and endless dedication had landed him a spot on the podium. The love for his country had always been a powerful catalyst, indeed. Otabek always said it in every interview and it’s the honest truth but, deep in his heart, he knows there is also something more…

In the faint light and the silence of the hotel room, Otabek finally allows his mind to wander, unleashing the memory of those intense green eyes that managed to instill in him the strength to keep fighting, day after day, with the absolute certainty that, sooner or later, he would have met that soldier’s eyes again, and he would have faced that look as an equal, in the next season….

TIN! 

TIN! 

TIN!

Otabek jumps at the sudden noise. It reverberates loudly in the quiet room and in his mind muffled from the alcohol. One cold and bluish light switches on over the bedside cabinet. Otabek runs his hand over his face with a sigh then he reaches for the mobile phone, where it lay forgotten near the passport. He checks the screen: 25 texts from Taras, the pictures of the party he just left.

“HEEY BEKA~~ you should post at least one of these on your Instagram! Show the world that you’re human!!” 

Otabek sighs. Human, yep.

He checks the pictures...well, the alcohol brought out the worst of them...he squint his eyes and furrow his brows...perhaps the only decent pic is the first one, where Otabek is taken aback from the sudden realisation of the secret party and he’s moving to take a seat at the table, not so full of empty bottles at that moment...ah, and the last pics are all blurred...mmh. He clicks two times on the central button and closes the texts app. His head is still light as he slowly moves his thumb on the Instagram icon, absently biting his lower lip. The app loads the last updates and, without warning, those green eyes show up on the screen looking directly at him. 

> ♥ 83,587 likes  
>  Yuri-Plisetsky заводить друзей на причале после бега! * #catsquad  
>  * Making friends at the docks after jogging!

Otabek gasps and stares at the picture, unable to think straight and feeling his cheeks on fire, again. Those eyes looking straight at the camera (not at him, breathe Otabek), those eyes full of pride and confidence, blond luxurious locks surrounding them. A sly smile on his thin lips and a fluffy ginger kitten curled up on his left arm. In the background, the sunset over St Petersburg.  
After a time that could be seconds or hours, who really knows, Otabek blinks, like he’s coming out of a trance. He quickly tries to scroll up but instead, he lands on another profile. Shit, he must have clicked on the username of the first comment at the pic by mistake. His eyebrows furrow as he tries to focus while he clicks at random on the screen. Then, suddenly he realises.

Oh, it’s Yuri’s fans club Instagram page.

He starts looking at the pictures, searching for the answer to a question that he has never asked himself before but that now, in the spur of the moment, it seems of vital importance: 

Which one was the first picture that the fandom posted online? When all this thing started out?

He’s furiously scrolling backwards on their profile his brows furrowed, totally focused on the task, when a notification pops on the upper corner of the app. 

A direct message? He absentmindedly clicks on it.

> “Hi! Welcome to Yuri+Angels! To show our support for our beloved Yuratchka, we usually ask all the fans to put a selfie with cat ears as their profile picture! Let’s show Yuri just how much support he has! Спасибо! (Thank you!)”

Otabek’s face is a mask of horror and it’s definitely on fire now. He suddenly drops his phone as if it’s made of lava and he quickly retreats in the bed as it’s expecting the device to become a viper at any second now, willing to bite him with his lethal venom.

Did he….did he really click follow? 

SHIT.. 

SHIIT.. 

SHIIIIT!!!

Fuck the alcohol.

Fuck social networks.

He definitely needs a cold shower, NOW!


	2. grasp the beauty of the power of ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘ _This is the most stupid and inconsiderate idea you have ever had Otabek.._ ’ 
> 
> OR
> 
> How Otabek Altin managed to be on the right place at the right time to save Yuri Plisetsky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Million thanks to @urielsgate for her invaluable help as beta for this chapter and thank you even more for loving my story so much! <3 <3 <3

**8th December 2015**  
6.20am Almaty ALA ✈ 9.10am Istanbul SAW  
2.00pm Istanbul SAW ✈ 4.40pm Barcelona BCN

The pale light of dawn slowly tinges the line of the horizon with pastel shades, a blend of grace and strength vibrating through that flawless moment when the night still lingers in the air and the thin blue sky melts into soft violet, pink and gold.  
Otabek had always been fascinated by the sunrise and from his actual point of view, sitting above a sea of clouds, flying from Almaty to Barcelona, the sight is even more precious and rare. He admires the breathtaking panorama outside the plane window while the quiet-loud-louder, strong and atmospheric sounds of [“The Hawk Is Howling”](https://open.spotify.com/album/2uPCSiXbtnvNBlebZK7aVu) of Mogwai serves as soundtrack to his thoughts.

_The grace and strength of dawn that relentlessly defeats the night..._

Otabek fought strenuously on the ice to reach this Grand Prix Final. He earned silver at Skate America, he conquered gold at NHK Trophy and now in less than two days the final battle against the six best skaters of the season awaits him. In two days, _finally_ , he will face those soldier’s eyes again, as equals, as he had promised himself since the first time he met that gaze.  
His lips curls into a hint of a smile, his face kissed by the vivid light of the high-altitude sun, while Anton, his coach, rests near him with a sleep mask over his eyes and snores a bit. Otabek had followed all the moves of his rivals, watched all their programs on YouTube, but most of all _his_ programs: The grace and relentless strength of Yuri Plisetsky on the ice is a sight that can leave you breathless. His fluid and balanced movements are hypnotic and effortlessly captures Otabek’s attention, as if he’s under a spell for all the duration of his program. He couldn’t deny that his heart had started pumping faster while he followed the ferocious intensity of his free program during the Rostelecom Cup. He noticed that the young Russian had changed the jumps sequence from his previous performance at Skate Canada. He had chosen to combine six jumps in the second part, probably pushing it beyond his limits. The outcome was sensational, but it had not been enough. Jean Jacques Leroy managed to win gold with the strength of his arrogance and the power of his program full of quads perfectly executed, leaving an angry Plisetsky in his wake. His pouty expression on the podium betrayed his rage and frustration against the Canadian but, Otabek assumed, mostly against himself. After years of ruling the Junior division it was clear that silver felt like a total defeat for Yuri Plisetsky.

He bites his lower lip, squinting his eyes while the direct light of the sun is threatening to blind him. The upcoming Grand Prix is expected to be a fierce battle. No one was going to be granted the luxury of taking things easy. Otabek can’t wait to step on the ice and fight until his last breath for conquering the higher place on the podium but….there is also something else he wants to do, before the battle starts. What he needs is a chance, and he will try his best to get it.

\--

 **8th December 2015**  
Princess Hotel, Barcelona, Spain  
Grand Prix of Figure Skating Final

“Welcome to the Princess Hotel, Mr. Altin” smiles the receptionist with a thick Spanish accent on her voice as she hands over the magnetic key and returns his passport. “Room 11445 on the eleventh floor. Enjoy your staying!”

It’s 6pm in Barcelona, 10pm for Almaty time zone and Otabek is starving. The hall is full of journalists, other ice skating teams and ordinary tourists. Near the entrance a group of young girls sporting cat ears on their heads are maniacally checking the glass doors while chatting, taking selfies and bursting into excited screams. Another small group of girls - without cat ears - stations near the lifts instead.

“Well you can spot Yuri Plisetsky’s fans from miles away!” laughs Taras, the Kazakh team physiotherapist, poking Otabek with his elbow and pointing at the gang with a nod. Otabek stares at them without saying anything. In a flash _that_ night in Shanghai comes back to him….he can’t deny it, _virtually_ he is part of those psychos. Every time he opens Instagram, the Yuri’s Angels feeds are always on top...

“Oh! That guy is Otabek Altin from Kazakhstan!” shouts one of the girls, pointing at him. Otabek stiffens a little but the brunette with glasses quickly turns her back to him, suddenly losing her interest, and states aloud to her friends “Aaaand with him we’re at four! Phichit Chulanont, Jean Jacques Leroy and Christophe Giacometti are already here...aww!! Where’s our Yuratchka?!?! I can’t wait any longer! My heart can’t take it!!”  
Taras laughs again “You’re lucky your fans are not….hey Beka, wait!” but Otabek is already walking towards the lifts, dragging his wheeled suitcase behind him and contemplating the idea of deleting Instagram for good.

He reaches his room and closes the door heavily with a sigh. The warm and golden lights of dusk blur in the shadows of the night sky, slowly surrendering to the darkness. Otabek absent-mindedly moves near the window, running a hand through his hair. He feels unsettled and exhausted at the same time. Perhaps a hot shower could relieve the weariness of the journey and the tangled mess of thoughts in his head. He opens his backpack, takes out the speakers and carries them into the bathroom. He plays the heaviest and angriest playlist on his phone and jumps in the shower while [the ferocious voice of James Jasta](https://open.spotify.com/track/501CSzS4gwNOJnlWHuBt9r) screams at full volume in the room.

_Destroy everything!_  
_Obliterate what makes us weak!_  
_Destroy everything!_  
_Decimate what threatens me!_

As he slips into a comfortable tracksuit and sets to rub his hair dry, Otabek remembers his good manners. He turns the volume down biting the inside of his cheek. Let’s hope none of the neighbouring guests will complain to the hotel management about loud music on the 11th floor…  
A muffled growl is coming from his belly. Shit, he really needs to eat something. He reaches for the magnetic card with a sigh and gets out of the room while wrapping a black scarf around his neck.

“GROUND FLOOR” states the metallic voice while the lift’s doors sharply open. Only half an hour had passed since he arrived at the hotel but the atmosphere in the hall now is completely changed: The Yuri’s Angels have their backs to him, facing the JJ Girls. Jean Jacques Leroy is sporting his ‘punch me in the face’ smile, while his girlfriend Isabella grabs his arm. A hooded figure is standing in front of Jean, cheetah print jacket and cat ears on his head, pointing a finger against the Canadian. He could be…

“ANY GUY WHO WEARS SUNGLASSES ON HIS HEAD IS SCUM! FIND SOMEONE BETTER, UGLY-ASS BITCH!”

Yep, he’s Yuri Plisetsky, no doubts.

Otabek puts his sunglasses on, resolving to ignore what’s going on and getting out of the way as soon as he can. He doesn’t have any intention of…

“OTABEK! Where are you going?”

Shit. Hawk-eye-Jean has recognised him and it would be useless to pretend he hasn’t seen him now. It would be stupid and quite honestly rude. So he stops in front of the door, takes a deep breath before taking off his sunglasses and turns to face him.

“Out to eat.”

The Canadian moves forward and smiles “Eating alone? You’re still an odd one, huh? Want to join us for dinner?”

“Thanks but I’ll pass.” Otabek replies, raising a hand to reiterate the concept. After waking up before sunrise and spending a whole day traveling, the option of hanging out with Jean and Isabella is not really on the top of his to-do-list, if you want to use a euphemism. He turns to face the third person who’s now standing even closer, perfectly conscious of who that person is. The blond boy is not at all intimidated by his stern gaze. 

“Huh? What’s with you, asshole?”

_Yep Otabek, what’s with you? What are you staring at? Yes, this is Yuri Plisetsky in the flesh, he’s standing in front of you and he’s holding your gaze. Jean has already managed to put him in a bad mood so quit staring at him like a complete idiot. Turn on your heel and get out of that door at the speed of light._

Without shifting his stark expression, Otabek turns his gaze away first, annoyed with himself and the awkward situation he managed to put himself into. He leaves the hall without looking back and heads off to the mall just outside the hotel.

If there is something in which Jean is a master at, out of the ice, it’s surely his natural ability to irk everyone with his attitude.

.  
.

.  


  
Toronto, Canada, one weekend during the 2012-13 figure skating season  
[Brian Orser](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brian_Orser)’s Figure Skating Workshop

“Nice haircut! You’re my fan, right?”

Otabek furrows his brow. He ties his left skate and slowly lifts his head. The guy in front of him flashes a bright smile, chin held up high, hands on his hips. Otabek sizes him up with a big question mark on his face. The other then sighs dramatically, crossing both arms in front of him in a plastic pose, both index fingers pointing up, arched thumbs. He stares at Otabek expecting to be recognised any moment now.

“I’m sorry but…”  
“JJ STYLE! Rings any bell? Yeah I’m still perfectioning the pose but…well I’m Jean Jacques Leroy...are you sure you never heard about me?” smiles the guy reaching his hand out.  
“Otabek Altin.” replies the Kazakh, shaking his hand vigorously.  
“I have surely never heard of you! No shit!” laughs the Canadian. “Where are you from?”  
“Kazakhstan.”  
“Huh...Kaz..what? I have no idea…” JJ smiles awkwardly scratching his neck.  
“K A Z A K H S T A N.” repeats Otabek spelling each and every letter blankly.  
It’s not the first time that people in the States can’t pronounce the name of his Country or even locate it on the world map. He’s not expecting any difference now that he’s in Toronto for this short workshop. Otabek is not surprised, but there is that thin conceit in their voice almost every time, as if it’s not a big deal to ignore the existence of such a young Nation. A Nation of little importance, especially if viewed from the perspective of someone who’s used to assume his Nation is the best in everything and all the rest of the world couldn’t stand a chance against them. Otabek isn’t expecting them to understand what it means for him.  
“Ka..zakh..stan..?” JJ tentatively gives it another go, feeling pierced by the boy’s dark eyes.  
Otabek nods.  
“JJ! BRIAN WANTS TO SPEAK WITH YOU! CAN YOU PLEASE COME HERE?” shouts Alain Leroy from the other end of the rink.  
“My father is calling me. Brian wants to speak with ME!” boasts the Canadian. “See you later Otabek!” smiles JJ, winking at him.

Jean couldn’t understand. His whole being radiates the absolute confidence and arrogance of someone who has always had everything accessible, someone that firmly believes this has to be the norm.  
Jean couldn’t comprehend what it means to change continent, to leave your family, your friends, your whole life behind. What it means to learn a foreign language, what it means to prove day, after day, after day that you’re worth the chance someone has given you to live, train and study in another Country, a chance that never ever comes for granted...

.  
.

.  


“¿Era bueno? ¿Quieres algo más?” the cheerful voice of the waiter brings him back to reality. “Do you want anything else?” prompts the guy, this time in English.  
“No, thank you.” Otabek replies and asks for the bill. He runs a hand over his eyes. Why the hell did his mind just go back to the day he met Jean for the first time? He sighs shaking his head. On his way back to the hotel he walks past a stationery shop. He enters and starts looking for a map of Barcelona.

\--

Every athlete has a different way to relax before a competition. What works for Otabek is not what his coach would have probably hoped for, but Otabek has proven himself worthy of trust on and off the ice, so Anton couldn’t really deny him is his green light.  
The room is plunged into darkness, only a little table lamp illuminates his desk. Otabek stretches out the map he just bought, moving the laptop aside while the biting riffs, ethereal melodies, sensual and savage sound of the [Deftones](https://open.spotify.com/track/23ZfYXdy2deoaf4u1XObHZ) envelop his thoughts and mark his heart beats.

_Tonight the stage is yours_  
_So why wait to discover your dreams?_  
_Now here’s your chance_  
_I promise_

Every athlete has a different way to relax before a competition. What works for Otabek is saddling up on an Harley Davidson and hit the roads of the city where the competition will take place, getting rid of any concern, focusing only on the roaring engine and on the friction of the wind. He checks the booking and the location of the shop where he is expected to retrieve the bike on the next afternoon, then he starts to elaborate the journey he’s going to embark on two wheels the following day. Truth to be told he doesn’t really need a physical map but it’s a habit deep rooted in his childhood, something he had begun to do almost unconsciously. A ritual he repeated with devotion through the days before a competition, almost like if the creaking of the highlighter across the rough paper could bring him back to his grandfather studio, where he sat with dreamy eyes on his grandpa’s knees while he traced the path towards the Zailiysky Alatau mountains. As if, each time Otabek mechanically repeated the same gestures, he could hear his rough voice again, that voice full of unconditional love for his homeland, that voice that used to whisper with excitement, telling him what they would have seen when they would have crossed the mountains riding Tumanbai, the black horse that his grandpa loved almost as much as the hassenblad and the reflex he captured the breathtaking wild beauty of those lakes and those snowy peaks with...  
He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing quietly and focusing his attention back on the squared grid of Barcelona’s streets.

\--

 **9th December 2015**  
Barcelona International Convention Centre – Ice rink  
Morning training

The screeching of the blades on the fresh ice, that familiar and reassuring sound, white noise and soundtrack of half of his life spent training on that cold and merciless surface, his daily battlefield. That scathing noise, like the claws of a creature racing at full speed, gaining momentum and jumping, rotating in mid air and then landing again, perfectly steady, forcefully scratching that freezing slab. Quadruple toe loop, triple toe loop. A sequence his body knows by heart and that he can execute mechanically without even thinking. He carries out his short program routine, triple axel, quadruple salchow. Shit, the exit was not perfect, Anton doesn’t miss it either: “Try to control the exit from that salchow!”  
Otabek nods and leans onto the barrier, retrieving his water bottle. Yuri Plisetsky darts in front of him completing a super smooth quadruple salchow and a triple toe loop, then he gracefully skates around the perimeter of the rink. Otabek follows his movements, taking all the time in the world to sip his water. JJ enters in his visual finishing his routine and raising an arm towards the ceiling. He then moves closer giving him an unnecessary wink. Otabek sighs, squints his eyes and turns his attention to Anton.  
“Let’s repeat everything from the beginning and be careful with that exit, you need to execute it perfectly if you want maximize your GOE points.” Otabek nods again and skates back towards the center of the rink. 

\--

His room is filled with the warm afternoon light, clean sheets on the freshly made bed, his luggage sits open on the desk. Otabek takes off his Kazakhstan team sweatshirt and lays it neatly over the chair, then he moves near the bedside cabinet and retrieves his phone, which had been left there since the previous night. He has several unread messages on the “Алматы” chat that apparently has changed its name to “Otasquad: Altin is GOLD!” at some point during the morning. He also had got texts from Leo De La Iglesias and Jean Jacques Leroy. Leo simply wished him good luck for tomorrow’s competition and inquired about the weather in Barcelona. Jean had asked him out for lunch again but...well it’s already 3pm and he just had lunch with his coach and his team. He replies to both of them while the notifications on the other chat multiplies. He smiles softly and shakes his head. His friends were busy planning out where they would meet up to watch the Grand Prix together and then the conversation moved onto other topics.

> Daulet: Well well well!! Look who finally showed up! Morning Beks!  
>  Daulet: What time is in Barcelona?  
>  Otabek: 99+ unread messages guys...  
>  Aruzhan: BEKAAAA!!!! <3 <3 <3  
>  Arsen: Here you are Beka!! :D  
>  Serik: You left your phone in your room haven’t you??  
>  Aruzhan: OMG..AGAIN???? You’re hopeless! :P  
>  Serik: How was the morning training?  
>  Bayansulu: Are you ready to kick ass tomorrow? I want you super pumped!! No shit!  
> 

  
Overwhelmed by the affection and the questions of his friends Otabek tries to start replying..

> Arsen: Have you spoken with Yuri Plisetsky yet??  
> 

  
His fingers freezes on the screen. 

> Serik: Right! Have you given him THE TALK? You’re my inspiration bla bla bla..  
>  Bayansulu: Honestly I think he already knows guys...he surely watched Otabek’s interview after Words...do you remember the face of the poor interviewer?? I still laugh if I think about it!! XD XD  
>  Daulet: LOL! You really think that guy watches his rival’s interviews?! NAAAH  
>  Aruzhan: ROTFL!! YAAS!! Everybody was expecting him to say Victor Nikiforov or some big name of the past, but no, Beka with his resting bitch face comes up with the name of a brat who still has to do his senior debut!! XD XD XD  
>  Arsen: Zhyndy! (crazy) Doesn’t matter if he knows it already or not, Beka NEEDS to tell him personally!!  
> 

Sigh.  


Otabek: Not yet…  
Otabek: It’s 3pm here. Left the phone at the hotel room, yep. Training session ok. I’m ready to kick ass, Baya. Now shower, then bike ride. Catch you later guys.  
Otabek: Thank you for your support, as always.

He puts back the phone on the bedside cabinet while his friends still argue in the chat.

\--

“Otabek Altin...” repeats the clerk. He types his name on the keyboard and scrolls through the booking list “Harley Davidson 750 Street?”  
“That’s correct.”  
“Great choice! Please bear with me a second while I ask my colleague to bring it out.” smiles the guy while he picks up the phone and calls the garage. Otabek thanks him with a nod and turns to have a look at the other Harleys parked in the shop. Two bikers walk in, chatting happily in Spanish and pointing at the bikes near the window. Otabek retrieves his phone from the pocket of his leather jacket. The Otasquad chat is bursting. Now they’re vivisecting all the other Grand Prix skater’s programs, or rather, being Bayansulu the only one with a grasp on the subject, she’s giving objective and technical comments, supported by Aruzhan, while the rest of the boys don’t give a shit about objectivity and shamelessly proclaim that the Hero of Kazakhstan will mandatory win gold. Otabek bites his lower lip. He wishes to make them proud and to fulfill their hopes. He gets distracted by an Instagram notification that pops on the screen. When he clicks on it the app automatically runs an Instagram story posted by his fanclub. Kazakhstan flag is used as a curtain, swiftly revealing a teddy bear with thick brows and a neutral expression dressed up with a white prince-like jacket, blue-light blue embroideries, dark gray waistcoat and pants. It looks exactly like his free skate costume. Otabek puts a hand on his mouth and tries to stop a fond laugh when two hands appears on the bears’ sides and moves it right and left in a clumsy dance and a choir of voices in the background shout “OTABEK DAVAI!!” bursting into laughter, screams and clapping.  
Without leaving him enough time to process what he has just viewed, Instagram starts automatically another story, posted by the Yuri’s Angels. One smiling brunette shows up on the screen sporting a ponytail and the unavoidable cat ears over her head. “We’re waiting for Yuratckha for the upcoming fans meeting YAAAAYYY!!” Some other Angels wave a banner with a cat like version of their idol and join the first girl in her cheering.  
Another video just starts playing next. This time the camera zooms on Yuri, clearly startled, while a clatter of voices shouts his name with a roar that would have worried even the most navigated rockstar. Plisetsky pulls the hood of his sweatshirt on and runs in the opposite direction without thinking twice. “WAAAIITT YURATCHKAAAA!!!!”  
The last video shows the back of some Angels running on a paved street surrounded by ancient buildings with high walls made of stones. “WE’RE CHASING YURATCHKAAA!!” happily screams a voice in the background, laughing in crazy excitement. An archway, a staircase, something that resembles a cathedral and in the distance Yuri Plisetsky. He stops for a second looking over his shoulder, visibly pissed off. He then starts running again at full speed while the Angels keep shouting, giggling and chasing him relentlessly.

“¿Que esta pasando en Plaza del Rey?”

Otabek jumps slightly startled and turns around acknowledging the hoarse voice which has just spoken to him. He was too caught up on the video to take notice of the man with an incredibly thick red beard and several flashy tattoos who had just approached him and was now laughing, leaning against a shiny Harley Davidson 750 Street.

“That video you were watching..” smiles the mechanic, switching to English “Those screaming girls were in Plaza del Rey! It’s just 15 mins from here...tell me, tell me, is there any rockstar in town?”

“N..not really.” replies Otabek while stuffing the phone back into his pocket, processing all the information he has just received. Plaza del Rey...Plaza del Rey was also one of the places he had marked on the journey he studied yesterday’s night. He knows exactly how to get there from the shop.. 

Otabek swallows and pays little attention to the technical details regarding the bike that the man keeps blabbering about. An irrational and ridiculous idea is twisting its way through his mind..  
“..and that’s all. It comes with 2 helmets but I’m not sure if you n..”  
“I’m taking both, thank you.” Otabek replies quickly, putting both hands on the handlebars and pushing the bike outside of the shop.  
‘ _This is the most stupid and inconsiderate idea you have ever had Otabek_ ’ he says to himself while he jumps on the Harley. Even if his common sense suggests him to discard the plan, his heart knows how to recognise a chance when he sees one and this, this was certainly his chance. He fastens his helmet, puts his sunglasses on and starts the engine. It’s now or never.  
Otabek smiles, breathes heavily and takes the road. Final destination: Yuri Plisetsky.

 

 _Laufe schnell wie Rosse_ (Run quickly like horses)  
_Glatt wie die Schlange_ (Smooth as the snake)  
_Und greife die Schönheit der Kraft des Eises_ (And grasp the beauty of the power of ice)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the moment Otabek made his entrance riding a Harley Davidson I pictured him like a rock-metal-hardcore soul and after Kubo sensei’s manga I’m happy to know I was on the right track!
> 
> The last lyrics (and the title of the fanfic) is from Otabek’s FS song: Symphony No. 9, 2nd Movement "Advent". The original lyrics are in German but I google-translated them and they sound a lot like his monologue during the FS. The whole lyrics are [here](https://ainitsuite-agape.tumblr.com/post/161348164674/symphony-no-9-2nd-movement-advent)
> 
> Last but not least Otabek’s friends are inspired by some headcanons of two amazing Kazakh girls. They created [this wonderful squad](http://motherofcakes.tumblr.com/post/154565978410/starkysnarks-motherofcakes-starkysnarks) and I fell in love with these mischievous guys! I’ve asked permission to put them in my story and they granted it! I hope I gave them justice! Go give them some love! <3 <3

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [ainitsuite-agape](http://ainitsuite-agape.tumblr.com/tagged/agape) on tumbr.


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